


crack your skull when the mind swells, a thought bigger than your own head

by glassbones



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Domestic Disputes, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, I Wrote This Because I Hate Myself, Long-Term Relationship(s), M/M, Merlin does his best to help Harry, Post-Canon, Recovery, spoiler: Merlin's best is not that good
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-27
Updated: 2015-09-06
Packaged: 2018-03-19 22:11:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3626142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glassbones/pseuds/glassbones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry Hart is not a gentle man. A gentleman, yes, a kind man perhaps but never gentle. Harry's intense and loving in his own way, in Merlin's eyes at least. Galahad is ruthless and detachedly cold. John Doe from a small hospital in Kentucky is soft and fraying around the edges, but nonetheless there is a certain sharpness to him that is ultimately Harry, that is the very core of his self.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Harry Hart is not a gentle man. A _gentleman_ , yes, a kind man perhaps but never gentle. Harry's intense and loving in his own way, in Merlin's eyes at least. Galahad is ruthless and detachedly cold. John Doe from a small hospital in Kentucky is soft and fraying around the edges, but nonetheless there is a certain sharpness to him that is ultimately Harry, that is the very core of his self.

He is pale and fragile against the hospital sheets. _Harry would never let anything with a thread count so low touch his skin_ , Merlin thinks. Harry blinks rapidly when Merlin approaches his bed.

"Merlin," Harry says, and Merlin hates Valentine, hates Arthur, hates himself for the uncertainty that lingers in the other man's voice, for the way his eyes dart across Merlin's face, searching for something.

"Harry," Merlin breathes, and if the utter despair lingering in Harry's expression wouldn't be so pronounced, he would run away right then. "What do you remember?"

"More than I can take, less than I would like," Harry's mouth is set in a grim scowl; it is devastating for Merlin to think that he doesn't remember these lines around it being there at all: either he forgot or the V-day changed Harry more than he expected. Merlin isn't sure which would be worse.

"I'm sorry," he says just because something has to be said, even if nothing can be done. His voice cracks a bit. "I really am."

Harry's soft 'yes?' is more of a sob than a word. "How long has it been?"

"Two months," every instinct Merlin has screams at him to do something, to comfort Harry, to stop the emotional breakdown that they both seem to be having, to run run _run_. He shuffles a little bit closer, unsure.

"You don't have," Harry rasps, "to treat me like a goddamn wounded _animal_ , fuck's sake. C'mere."

Merlin does; when he's being pulled down for an insistent kiss, a small smile ghosts across his lips.


	2. Chapter 2

After a certain chaos and a vote, Harry — freshly shaved and shipped from America — becomes the new Arthur. Nothing, except for a scar on his temple and the off colour of his face reminds of what he went through.

Merlin keeps looking at him every other minute, subconsciously wary that something may happen. that something may show on Harry's face. Nothing does, nothing shows.

They have rushed sex the day Harry feels truly well, mindless and sweaty, until Merlin is properly fucked into the mattress. Harry's body is being driven into his like a crash test car; it's too intense to be pleasure, it's not pronounced enough to be pain; Merlin is afraid to say that he loves him because saying it will take the magic out of the feeling, because there are no words invented to explain; it's too intense, Merlin's skin is barely keeping him inside.

* * *

Merlin hurts for days after — it's a good kind of hurt, grounding him, reminding who he is and whose he is.

He keeps being distracted from work (which is extremely rare, Bismuth crystal rare) by thoughts that come unbidden; by memories of how Harry used to style his hair just so; how he snores in his sleep — which is a secret Merlin will carry to his early grave—; by how Harry has a reading glasses callus on the bridge of his nose; silly domestic things.

It's both comforting and distressing to realize that Merlin has a shelf in his brain that is dedicated entirely to Harry; that there is a drawer in his memory where Harry keeps his things for when he comes over; that someday that drawer, filled with dust and scotch glasses and silly things, will be all there is left for Merlin to have. Even if he has to scream for a bit in the privacy of his office, he won't act upon it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bits and pieces stolen from siken's "crush", i'm sorry but i am in siken's firm clutch and there is no way i'll ever be able to free myself from this poetry prison


	3. Chapter 3

Harry stopped having nightmares but the gunshot still resonates in his skull, hot and heavy, this is going to be a quick death; would be a quick death. Flecks of blood on his glasses; Harry can't take it anymore.

He washes and washes his hands until they're scrubbed raw and clean but the blood somehow remains splattered across them, red dropping from his fingers.

Harry keeps working, partly because this is the only way he knows how to cope, partly because of the things that lurk in the corner of his eyes, rattle rattle rattle the teacup shakes in his bloody hands.

Here is a list of things that may break, here is a list of things that are broken, here is a list of things that are breaking. Harry is on the second, bone china shards, bits of crystal glimmering.

* * *

There is a sickly greyish yellow hue to his thoughts. Harry feels sort of stretched out and paper-thin; rumble rumble rumble the roar of the blood in his veins.

He buys a pack of Chesterfield and smokes until his throat hurts and he can't smell anything but tobacco: just because he knows Merlin absolutely can't stand the smoke; just because it seems like a sound idea. He always found the process calming but it does nothing to soothe his nerves now.

The centre of him is worn thin and his tongue feels thick; there is a hole in the middle of his chest and wind whooshes through it every time he moves.

Harry tries to fill it the best he can. They get a dog (a tiny pepper-and-salt Schnauzer boy with a little limp and a curious tilt to his head); they paint Harry's living room green; Harry cuts his dinner into little pieces and pushes it around his plate so it looks like he's eaten; Merlin's fingers are cold when he cups Harry's face.

Time consists of little moments suspended in a blank space, Harry doesn't know what day of the week it is. The gap in his chest slowly closes in but he still feels strangely empty each time he comes to the kitchen just to be unable to recall what did he want here; each time his breath comes short; each times the walls are closing in on him.

They run out of things to say. The silence is uncomfortable lump in the back of Harry's throat; the silence is a fire in the straw house; the silence is the devil lurking in the cracks in the pavement; the silence is the weight on Harry's shoulder that wraps its sticky fingers around him every time he forgets to pay attention.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> experimenting with the style of the narrative; tell me whether it's a good idea  
> bits and pieces stolen from 'the sensation of falling as you just hit sleep' and siken's 'crush'
> 
> as usual, feedback is appreciated, please and thank u


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a quick intermission chapter that i forgot to type out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> omg i'm sO S OR rY for not uploading this earlier!! university has been slowly eating away at me and with the upcoming midterms all i have time for is research and ugly crying. i promise to fix the situation smh

 

 

They lay on the coverlet together (it's too hot to get under it and Harry really can't be bothered to get up and find a sheet or some such). The curtains are drawn, stray beams of light dancing across the floorboards. Merlin is tracing a distracted pattern on Harry's chest.

It takes Harry just a few seconds of looking at him, really _looking_ , to realize that he wants to make this man smile more (like this, slightly lopsidedly, or like when he hides his smile behind his hand, or like when he, _very_ rarely, grins unabashedly at some terrible joke Harry made just to get a reaction out of him), to make him laugh more, to make him produce all sorts of delicious sounds; it takes Harry just a few seconds to realize that he wants to spend the rest of his life with this man, and the new knowledge is warm and liquid in Harry's chest where Merlin's fingers move against it. It's sappy and silly but that's how love is ( _love_ , Harry thinks, and it's funny how it still takes him by surprise: he _loves_ Merlin; Merlin _loves_ him). So he says "love" and kisses Merlin's jaw; so he says "you" and kisses Merlin in the corner of his lips; so he says "love you" and kisses Merlin on the mouth, proud in a strange way.

"Love you too," Merlin laughs, slightly incredulous. "Love you too."

It is easy to fall under the pretense that everything is good, and if Harry's heart is suddenly heavy in his mouth, that's okay, that's something they can work out together.

* * *

Things get better, except that some of them don't. Merlin learns to navigate around Harry when he is most sensitive (a part of him strongly objects to describing Harry as vulnerable); they take time picking up the pieces.

Sometimes, when they are curled up in the bed like this, their puppy snoring in the feet of the bed, it's very easy to pretend that this is all there is to them; that the lazy comfort and the security of their embrace is all there is, perfect, infrangible. It's a dangerous thought.

Merlin laughs when Harry starts mouthing against his neck; they move around each other carefully so as not to disturb the dog as their breath becomes more and more frantic.

A strange joy suddenly fills Merlin up, the satisfaction from the simple things, bubbling up in his chest. He is in bed with his lover; all is well (for now, he thinks,  _for now,_ just you wait); this is more than he ever hoped to have.

They don't write songs or make movies about this kind of love. Theirs is not the romance to write stories about; the story of two wankers falling in, and out of, and in love again is nothing people would like to hear about.

It's a lovely story nonetheless, Merlin thinks, and then he doesn't think of anything at all for quite some time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> re: harry's pov -- as you may or may not have noticed it's slightly more.. normal and that is totally deliberate on my part. he's getting better, more stable, and that means that his perception of the world is slowly becoming more stable too. but that is for me to deliberate upon in the next chapter  
> feedback is appreciated, AS ALWAYS, if u happen to notice a typo or something please hmu


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (cw: smoking, excessive swearing)

The distance is spilling between them like coffee spills from a dropped mug ( _Kingsman headquarters, Merlin's mouth agape_ ), over and around them. Every breath Merlin takes, every word that comes out of his mouth is another mile put between them.

Harry is seated on the chair across, an ashtray propped dangerously close to the edge of the table. His expression is off (Harry stopped wearing his scar makeup a few weeks ago; Merlin is mostly just relieved that they're rid of the mess it left in the bathroom, used makeup wipes, foundation samples, brushes and what have you), but Merlin can't quite tell how. If not for the way Harry's hand shakes when he taps the cigarette against the ashtray, he is the perfect image of a gentleman — every "p" aspirated, elbows locked, back straight.

Merlin has no trousers on and very little patience for Harry's bullshit.

It's eerily quiet and that's what gets on Merlin's nerves the most. Temper tantrums, he can handle. Temper tantrums, they've _been_ through, they're something Merlin is used to navigating through; this cold and dangerous calm, on the other side, is something entirely new. Every instinct that Merlin had been painstakingly trained into having tells him to flee. He plants his feet more firmly under the table. The silence keep stretching.

* * *

 

Merlin smiles to himself, seemingly bitter, Harry looks away; discomfort feels like glass needles, cold and bright, biting into his skin.

Harry shakes his head at the thoughts ( _dark and dripping with blood; bleak and glimmering; sharp and flaring , scorching his innards_ ).

"You," he says, exhaling the cigarette smoke, watching it go up in intricate swirls, bluish grey against Merlin's cherry wood kitchen table. "You, _this_ ," a broad gesture that is meant to encompass everything that they are, that Merlin is to him, "I never thought I would get the chance to have it," Harry takes another drag; his fingers are yellowed by nicotine, and his fingers shake as he pulls his hand from his mouth. "I never thought that we. That, _you_ ," he laughs.  
Merlin keeps silent. Harry looks away.

"You know," Harry continues after a pregnant pause, and ignoring the words that coil in their shared silence like cigarette smoke coils under the ceiling is really the only way to do this. _This will probably end in tears_ , Harry thinks. "You never told me you loved me before the.. events," he feels oh so stupid for saying it. Harry's _stupid_. His cigarette has burned through the filter, it takes Harry a few tries to light another one. His hands shake so hard, he wonders if Merlin noticed yet.

"Neither did you."

"I've been wondering why, is all. Why haven't we," Harry doesn't have the guts to look Merlin in the eye, but for some reason he doesn't think he'd be relieved at what he'd see there.

"Quit with the pish," Merlin snaps. "You know _perfectly_ well that _nothing_ has changed," — everything has changed, Harry wants to interject, — "there just." He sighs and rubs at his face. Harry wonders if those wrinkles had been there before, or if it was him who he put him there: the church, the gunshot, finding Harry in that damned hospital, all resulting in new creases between Merlin's brows and around his mouth. "There wasn't any reason to vocalize because I didn't think something would happen. I guess."

A sharp intake of breath, a moment perfectly suspended in time. Harry looks at Merlin intently through the smoke and mirrors he himself conjured into place. Maybe, he thinks, Merlin can see through his facade. He really hopes Merlin can.

"Would it be easier for you?" Harry tries to keep the hurt out of his voice. "If I died on you before you said you love me? If I didn't.. Would it be easier if you hadn't found me in the bloody hospital, if you just had the chance to get on with your bloody life." He doesn't really need the answer. They both know it would.

"It's not about.."

"Shit off, Merlin." He lights another cigarette; this time the silence is more accusing. Terrors lurking in the shadows around them. Ugly things.

"You know I love you," a fact. "You always knew, even way back," a hypothesis. " _I_ knew. It doesn't change whether I say it out loud," a lie.  
Merlin moves his hand as if to hold Harry's hand but doesn't.

"For you, it doesn't," it's so bloody stupid, all of this. "Maybe we're different like that."

"I'm sorry if.."

"No, _no_ , shut the fuck up, it's not your fault."

"But.."

" _No_."

"I think I'm going to take a walk, Harry. Please calm down while I'm gone. Make some tea, I don't fucking know."

"Merlin, _wait_ ," Harry says, all his words escape him with the scrape of Merlin's chair against the floor. He hastily stubs out his fag, stands up. "I love you too, you know," he says to the empty kitchen.

The door slams. Harry goes about making himself some tea. His hands shake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaand obviously it all goes to shit right before the final chapter  
> (i promise they will get a happy ending though)  
> firstly, i TREMENDOUSLY apologize for putting this on hold for so long. combining university (made it to the second year of linguistics, hooray!), mental health issues, and personal life really didn't leave any time for the fandom. and then hannibal happened  
> secondly, i can't really promise to wrap the fic up soon BUT i will try to start writing as soon as possible. i can't say i have anything particular in mind, so any suggestions or prompts are welcome  
> thirdly, kudos to housewife-daily.tumblr.com and twitter.com/lecreyjinx for betaing this chapter. you can also find yours truly on photobombur.tumblr.com if you'd like give me a heads up or just yell at me on anon. either is fine

**Author's Note:**

> title from richard siken's landscape with a blur of conquerors


End file.
